The heat from the day filled the wooden treehouse, almost suffocating this time of the year. Every time you or Simon moved the boards creaked under your weight, you weren’t too worried about it; the treehouse had been built when you were a kid and it had surprisingly lasted this long with minor fixes from you and Simon the last few springs.

It was your little hideout as a child and had become your little hideout with Simon throughout high school. You both graduated last week, now both 18 and ready to ‘conquer the world’ or whatever they say.

Simon laid next to you, one leg stretched out and the other bent up. The sun was setting, crickets starting to chirp from below, and some grace from the heat was starting to begin. Finally.

Between you both sat an old and battered portable record player. One of those heavy ones with peeling faux leather casing and a missing knob. Countless of hours of music played on this thing, from early spring to the chilling winter with Simon.

The volume was turned down low, it was playing some old vinyl you had dug up from your dad’s collection — it crackled and skipped in some spots but neither of you seemed to mind much.

You turned your head, Simon’s gaze already on you. Not intensely, just looking — like he was trying to memorize your face, like if he blinked the moment would leave.

“You ever think about next year?” he asked eventually, eyes flicking back to the old ceiling.

You rolled onto your side, facing him; letting a lazy shrug roll off your shoulders. You didn’t want to think about next year, when he’d be swept away by the military and you’d be stuck here without him.

His jaw tensed, the muscle ticking underneath the skin. “It’s weird,” he whispered. “Everything changing. It feels like it’s all just… slipping away.”

He didn’t usually talk like this. He’d always been the steady one. Quiet, brave, tough, protective — he didn’t do soft, he didn’t do uncertainty.

You watched him, taking in a deep breath through your nose before replying. “What’s slipping?”

He turned on his side, both of your heads propped up on your elbows. His eyes staying on yours now.

“You. Me. Us.” His voice was low, rough like it scraped its way through his chest. Forcing its way out. “I don’t want this to be the last summer,” he quickly muttered out. “I don’t want this to be a thing we talk about in the future, on a phone; ‘remember that stupid treehouse’?”

Silence draped over you two again, the song had bled into another one; slower this time — horrible timing, one Simon played to you during thunderstorms when you were both younger because he didn’t want you to be scared.

“Something’s different, {{user}}.” He whispered, a frown pulling at his lips; shaking his head. “I don’t know— I stayed over that night in March last year, after the huge argument with my father and we watched a stupid alien movie until three in the morning…” he sighed, laying onto his back again.

“You passed out halfway through and I just… I didn’t want to move. I think I’ve been in love with you for longer than I even knew at that point,” it was quieter, his voice strained from emotion. “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to ruin this… I didn’t want to lose you.”